Betrayal at Lisson Grove (Treason at Lisson Grove)

But of course she wouldn’t see it that way. She couldn’t afford to. She needed her anger, and it was justified only if her parents were the victims.

And Fiachra? Narraway winced at his own blindness. How desperately he had misread him! He had concealed the passion of his Irish nationalism inside what had seemed to be a concern for the disenfranchised of all nations. The more Narraway thought about it, the more it made sense. Odd how often a sweeping love for all could be willing to sacrifice the one, or the ten, or the score, almost with indifference. Fiachra would see the glory of greater social justice, freedom for Ireland—and the price would slip through his fingers uncounted. He was a dreamer who stepped over the corpses without even seeing them. Under the charm there was ice—and by God he was clever. In law he had committed no crime. If justice ever reached him, it would be for some other reason, at another time.

Narraway looked at Charlotte again. She became aware of his gaze and turned to him.

“There’s no one anywhere on the whole sea,” she said with a slightly rueful smile. “I think we’re safe.”

The inclusion of herself in his escape gave him a sort of warmth that he was aware was ridiculous. He was behaving like a man of twenty.

“So far,” he agreed. “But when we get on the train at Holyhead you would be safer in a different carriage. I doubt there will be anyone looking for me, but it’s not impossible.”

“Who?” she said, as if dismissing the idea. “No one could have gotten here ahead of us.” Before he could answer she went on. “And don’t tell me they anticipated your escape. If they had, they’d have prevented it. Don’t be naïve, Victor. They wanted you hanged. It would be the perfect revenge for Sean.”

He winced. “You’re very blunt.”

“I suppose you just noticed that!” She gave a tiny, twisted smile.

“No, of course not. But that was unusual, even for you.”

“This is an unusual situation,” she said. “At least for me. Should I be trite if I asked you if you do it often?”

“Ah, Charlotte!” He brushed his hand through his heavy hair and turned away, needing to hide the emotion in his face from her. He needed it to be private, but—far more than that—he knew that it would embarrass her to realize how intense were his feelings for her.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly.

Hell, he swore to himself. He had not been quick enough.

“I know it’s serious,” she went on, apparently meaning something quite different.

A wave of relief swept over him, and, perversely, of disappointment. Did some part of him want her to know? If so, it must be suppressed. It would create a difficulty between them that could never be forgotten.

“Yes,” he agreed.

“Will you go to Lisson Grove?” Now she sounded anxious.

“No. I’d rather they didn’t even know I was back in England, and certainly not where.” He saw the relief in her face. “There’s only one person I dare trust totally, and that is Vespasia Cumming-Gould. I shall get off the train one or two stops before London and find a telephone. If I’m lucky I’ll be able to get hold of her straightaway. It’ll be long after dark by then. If not, I’ll find rooms and wait there until I can.”

His voice dropped to a more urgent note. “You should go home. You won’t be in any danger. Or else you could go to Vespasia’s house, if you prefer. Perhaps you should wait and see what she says.” He realized as he spoke that he had no idea what had happened to Pitt, even if he was safe. To send Charlotte back to a house with no one there but a strange maid was possibly a cruel thing to do. She had said before that her sister Emily was away somewhere, similarly her mother. God! What a mess. But if anything had happened to Pitt, no one would be able to comfort her. He could not bear to think of that.

Please heaven whoever was behind this did not think Pitt a sufficient danger to have done anything drastic to him. “We’ll get off a couple of stops before London,” he repeated. “And call Vespasia.”

“Good idea,” she agreed, turning back to watch the gulls circling over the white wake of the ship. The two of them stood side by side in silence, oddly comforted by the endless, rhythmic moving of the water and the pale wings of the birds echoing the curved line of it.

NARRAWAY WAS CONNECTED WITH Vespasia immediately. Only when he heard the sound of her voice, which was thin and a little crackly over the line, did he realize how overwhelmingly glad he was to speak with her.

“Victor! Where on earth are you?” she demanded. Then an instant later: “No. Do not tell me. Are you safe? Is Charlotte safe?”

“Yes, we are both safe,” he answered her. She was the only woman since his childhood who had ever made him feel as if he were accountable to her. “We are not far away, but I thought it better to speak to you before coming the rest of the journey.”